


What A Catch

by CautionaryTales



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, College AU, F/M, Homelessness, M/M, Multi, band au, bassist!grantaire, homeless!grantaire, i mean they go to coffee when they meet so there's that, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:40:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CautionaryTales/pseuds/CautionaryTales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire plays bass, rather, he used to play bass before he sold the instrument to pay for food and shelter when he was evicted from his apartment.  It has been two years since he was turned out onto the street and Grantaire is quite successful at picking up extra change by busking around his university.  He is the average music student, bitter about fame that so stealthily slipped through his fingers and landed him in a world of trouble, before his past comes back to haunt him.  It yanks him along for the ride and the opportunity that he lost a year ago may be presenting itself again in the form of a shitty bassist who is in the process of gently being nudged from a famous band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All of the lines that are written in italics are things that Grantaire is thinking.

It has been two years since Grantaire was evicted from his apartment.  He celebrates this anniversary with a quick bottle of beer before he heads to the university in the morning.  Before he takes his first sip, Grantaire bitterly thinks back to his asshole landlord.  The man is the reason that the student is in his current predicament, Thenardier was a greedy bastard.  From the moment Grantaire moved into the apartment complex, he knew that he wasn’t going to last long.  He just never expected that all of his life savings would be sucked into the shithole that he rented.

Thenardier began trying to find excuses to kick Grantaire about a week after he made himself at home.  When his constant threats and complaints did nothing to deter the new tenant, Thenardier tried a different tactic.  Dollar by dollar, he slowly started raising the price of rent each time a new payment came in.  Grantaire began to protest but was quickly shut down when his landlord pointed out that a constant rate of rent was never agreed upon between them.  He could only pick so many extra shifts up at the restaurant he was working at, especially with school to worry about as well.  Eventually, the apartment became too expensive and Grantaire was forced to move out. 

Although he knew that he would most likely have to move outside the immediate vicinity of the university to find a place he could afford, Grantaire still had enough saved up for a down-payment.  Unfortunately, those funds quickly dissipated as Thenardier showed up at his door in the morning just as he finished packing.  The man brought with him a list of expenses unrelated to the rent, including those specific to damage caused to the rooms.  They had gotten into an argument, Grantaire insisting that much of the wreckage had already been there prior to his occupation of the apartment.  Thenardier smirked and handed him the paper anyway, Grantaire had been momentarily confused before he blanched and signed a cheque for the amount detailed in the document.  His landlord left with a triumphant smile, having successfully leeched the rest of the boy’s life savings.

As soon as the man closed the door behind him, Grantaire collapsed on the floor and buried his face in his hands. 

_What am I going to do?_

He had no choice but to pay the extra charges that Thenardier had presented him with.  He couldn’t afford a lawyer and didn’t know what to do in the face of the imposing man.  Not only was his last bit of money gone, but the cheque he was forced to write had exceeded the amount left in his bank account. 

Grantaire stood up and began gathering his few possessions.  Exiting his apartment building for the last time, he hailed a taxi and used some pocket change to pay for the ride.  When he arrived at his destination, he glanced up at the pawn shop he was standing in front of and shoved the door open with his shoulder.

An hour later, he deposited his profits into his bank account and prayed that Thenardier would wait at least twenty four hours before cashing the cheque. 

That afternoon, Grantaire found himself perched on top of a bunk in a local homeless shelter he had stumbled upon.  Before curling up for the night, he lovingly placed his remaining belongings under a spare blanket and hid them under his bed.  The wooden handle of his bass guitar was just poking out from under its covering, the light wood gleaming in the pale moonlight.

A drunk man ambling into his seat at the bar shakes him out of his reverie.  When Grantaire glances at the time he swears, he should have left for the university five minutes ago.  He downs the rest of his beer in a rush, mumbling thanks to the barkeep before grabbing his bags and running out of the Corinthe. 

Grantaire doesn’t have much baggage; he carries everything he owns since he still hasn’t found another place to live.  Rent is simply too expensive with food, tuition, and instrument upkeep to worry about.  For the past two years, shelter-hopping has been his way of finding a warm place to stay for the night.  He spends most of his time hanging around the music building, carrying nothing but his guitar case and his backpack.  The latter holds a few changes of clothes, a sketch book, some pencils, and school work.

When Grantaire reaches the university, he sits down at the hideous fountain located in the centre of the main campus square.  He sets his backpack and his guitar case down beside himself, unlatching the latter and pulling his instrument into his lap.  A sour pang hits hard in his chest as he runs his fingers along the frets of the acoustic. 

Grantaire has always been artistically inclined, ever since he can remember music has come naturally to him.  He started with simple piano lessons, soon picking up the flute, trumpet, and saxophone in his grade school music classes.  When he arrived at high school, his teacher had introduced him to the world of guitars.  After four years of experimentation, he found himself at home with strings.  His long fingers were made to run across fret boards and pull notes from the nylon.  Although he had learned to play multiple different styles, bass was his favourite.  The low strum of the instrument was calming and he knew that it was integral to creating a feeling of unity within a piece of music.  Grantaire thought that bass guitar was painfully underappreciated and decided to bring it the attention it deserved.  When he was accepted to university as a music student, he continued to develop his talents, electing to work with bass more often than the other multitude of instruments he had learned to play over the years.

He begins to tune the acoustic absent mindedly, thinking that his perfect pitch probably has a lot to do with his affinity for music.  It was also handy since he couldn’t afford a decent tuner anymore, tuning by ear was just as simple for him, not to mention free.  As he moved onto the third string, Grantaire lamented the loss of his beloved bass. 

It had been gorgeous, custom-made with a light wooden handle, smooth forest-green body, and white pickguard.  He hadn’t sold it during his initial trip to the local pawn shop, but after a week or so of carrying it around, Grantaire needed to re-evaluate his situation.  Although he has a few thousand dollars tucked away in a special account, that money is reserved for tuition.  Grantaire refuses to spend it on food, clothing, or shelter; he will _not_ drop out of school.  It’s the only thing he has left.

He hadn’t eaten a proper meal in a few days and the equipment had become dead weight.  No apartment meant no electricity, which in turn meant that Grantaire did not have a power source for his amp.  As he sold his beautiful guitar, which was worth just under a thousand, enough to last for a few weeks, he cursed himself for not investing in an acoustic bass when he had the chance.  Grantaire had the opportunity to purchase one a month prior to being kicked out, but he had elected to upgrade his regular acoustic instead. 

Grantaire plucks the last string and hums in satisfaction as he hears an E resonate from his guitar.  Now is not the time to mourn the loss of his Fender, it has been a little less than a year since he sold it and he is still managing to keep up with his goals.  At least Grantaire has the option to play the ones that the music department keeps in store.  Because he is a music student, he is given preference for instrument bookings and practice room times. 

His open guitar case scrapes along the ground as he slides it in front of him and he winces.  It is covered with faded stickers and threadbare patches from different concerts and shows he has attended.  The few he ordered online are protected from weathering underneath the handles; most of them are from foreign bands or concerts too expensive for Grantaire to even consider purchasing tickets for.  The only exception to this rule is the circular patch that displays a man throwing his body back, a small lightning bolt hovering above his chest.  This specific decoration has a place of honour in the middle of the lid.  Green Day was the gateway to his obsession with music and will always have a special place in his heart.  To the left and right, respectively, are the famous heart-shaped grenade and a cheery sunflower whose green stem zigs and zags a black-lined path down to a lopsided pot.  There are not any scuffs on these particular adornments; Grantaire takes great care to keep them in pristine condition.  He smiles as he remembers his music teacher in high school noticing him eyeing the old bass that was stacked in the corner of the room.  That night, Grantaire went home with the instrument tucked away in a bag and the sheet music for Longview.  It was the first bassist piece he learned to play and he still goes back to most of Mike’s sheet music today.  Grantaire finds the nostalgic riffs comforting, and there is still familiarity even in the new sounds the band has created.

He props a foot up on the bottom part of the case and strums a chord.  Swaying a little as he feels the sound vibrate up his arm, Grantaire begins playing.  After a few songs, quite a large crowd has gathered around him.  A few of the audience members hum along to songs that they recognize and Grantaire hears murmured compliments about his voice.  He smirks as he sings a particularly high note at the end of a song, quickly transitioning into the notes of another as he played the ending chords.  He may not be good at a lot of things, but even Grantaire has to admit, his falsetto is uniquely incredible.  When most male singers he knows at the university strive to reach beyond a high C, their voices fill with strain and quickly become unpleasant.  Grantaire is fairly well known throughout his department for the clear, sweet notes he is capable of producing.

As Grantaire hears the clink of change hit the bottom of his case, he thinks back to the week before he sold his bass.  He wouldn’t need to be busking on cold mornings like this one if he wasn’t such an unlucky bastard.  Grantaire's professor had approached him, talking about the group of students on campus who had formed a band a few years ago and were solidifying a record deal with a new company.  He said that they were looking for a bassist as the one who was originally part of the band quit because he was disgusted at the idea of selling out.  The professor had kindly mentioned Grantaire’s name, being fully aware of how talented the man is, and set up an audition date with the band. 

Unfortunately, in the subsequent few days, Grantaire contracted a nasty cold, which quickly turned into the flu.  Shelters weren’t exactly known for their amazing insulation or cold medicine, so the illness progressed until he found himself passing out on a street corner.  When he woke up, he was in a hospital room, disoriented and dizzy.  After vomiting into a bucket that had been left beside his bed, he groaned, realization hitting him.  Grantaire had missed his meet-and-greet with the band that morning.  He glanced at the time, it was half-past noon which meant that they were well on their way to New York already.  Fuck.

During the following few months, Grantaire listened to radio stations in bars and from iPods that obnoxious students carried around campus.  He felt bitterness and bile rise up his throat every time he heard the band that was quickly rising to fame.  The student grudgingly admitted that their radical approach to lyrics and amazing lead singer complimented the underlying guitar riffs and drum beats exceptionally well.  However, the bass line irks him to this day, it was over-simplified and any decent musician could ascertain that this was by no means a lack of skill on the writers’ parts.  The bassist struggled painfully with what little he had been given and it was obvious that the other band-members had purposefully provided him with simplistic sheet music to suit his ability.  Apparently the musician was a last-minute addition, an old friend that the band had reached out to when their original choice had fallen through. 

Gritting his teeth at the memory, Grantaire shifts his position on the ledge of the fountain, trying to ignore the chill curling its icy fingers around him body.   The fingerless gloves he wears to prevent his hands from slipping off of the strings mean that the tips are exposed.  His fingers feel vaguely like they’re bleeding and he is beginning to shake.  He makes a quick mental note to use his earnings today to purchase a proper winter coat to replace the hoodie-windbreaker substitute he has been using for the winter so far.  The song’s last notes trail off and he decides to call it a morning, frostbite terrifies Grantaire because he can definitely not afford to lose any of his fingers at this rate.

When he finishes, the spectators clap politely and begin to walk away as they realize that the entertainment is not going to continue.  A few of them glance distastefully at his open guitar case as he nudges it, pointedly ignoring it before leaving as well.  Grantaire scowls and dips down to sort through the money sitting in the bottom of it.  A few coins lay on the bottom, pillowed by bills; his lip curls when he sees a sea of blue.  The collection of five dollar notes along with the change probably adds up to about fifty dollars if he’s lucky.  It’s rather pathetic for the size of audience he attracted.

Grantaire scoops up the change with shaking fingers, a few coins falling from numb hands to land on the ground.  He shoves his money into the side pocket of his backpack and falls against the fountain, now slumped on the interlocking brick that stretches across the square.

He sighs, closing his eyes and muttering, “fuck you very much.”

“That’s no way to talk to your fans,” a voice comes from somewhere above him.

Grantaire flops an arm over his eyes and replies, “well you would never know how adoring they are by the petty change they leave behind.  Very discreet fans, these ones.”

The voice laughs and it sounds light, beautiful, “we all have our bad days.”

Grunting in response, Grantaire pulls his arm from his face, only to see the most beautiful person he’s ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.  His mouth curls upward at the sight and he tips his head back, he really needs a drink.

“I find it hard to believe that you have bad days, Apollo.”

 _Where the fuck did that come from?_ He doesn’t even know this guy, but the ridiculous nickname just slipped off of Grantaire’s tongue.  The sun is lingering behind the man’s head, showering his golden curls in a halo of light and his perfect lips are twisted in a crooked smile.  After he spends a few seconds admiring the perfect cupid’s bow and the exact shade of blue, no cerulean, of the man’s eyes, he inwardly nods to himself.  Apollo is appropriate; Grantaire’s a pretentious art student, sue him.

The man shifts minutely, clearly uncomfortable with either the comment or the blatant attention he is receiving.  _Shit, Grantaire, say something else, don’t fuck this up._

Before he could open his mouth, the stranger shakes his head, smile widening as he tilts his head.  The gesture really shouldn’t look that adorable on a grown man.

“You look cold,” the man begins.

“As balls,” Grantaire cuts in; quick to agree with the obvious.

He receives a short chuckle in response before the stranger continues, “can I get you a coffee?”

Grantaire’s mind lingers on the fact that this gorgeous creature is asking him to get a coffee before his brain latches onto the word.  Coffee.  He’s ninety-nine percent sure he is salivating at an unhealthy pace and swallows, nodding.

“Sure, one second.”

Grantaire carefully places his guitar in its case, double checking the latches and picking up the remaining coins that dropped onto the ground earlier.  He runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame the curls that had been whipped around by the wind.  Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he runs to follow the man who has already begun walking away.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he turns to Grantaire when the student catches up with him, “there is only one free-trade shop in the area, I refuse to go anywhere else.”

Grantaire’s mind is still trying to process the fact that he was going to get coffee with a gorgeous stranger.  The words register and he nods, smirking.

“That’s cool, man.  I get it, free the children and all that.”

His comment is met with a raised eyebrow, admittedly the stranger looks like he’s getting ready to make a speech before he thinks better of it, pushing the door to the café.

A few minutes later, Grantaire finds himself sitting at a table near the back of the little shop, waiting for coffees that the stranger had ordered for both of them.  Their waitress seemed enthralled by the blond man’s presence and, quite frankly, Grantaire does not blame her.  Even in the shitty lighting of the tiny coffee place, he manages to look stunning.

When the drinks finally arrive, Grantaire doesn’t think twice before blowing a tendril of steam away from the top of his and taking a sip.  As the bitter flavour of the pure black coffee hits his tongue, he lets out a moan.  There is really nothing else Grantaire could call it; the sound is definitely not something that was appropriate in a public setting.

The stranger’s eyes widen fractionally before they crinkle at the sides and he laughs breathily into his latte.

Grantaire looks up and feels heat flaring across his face as he hears the reaction. 

Still keeping his cup next to his mouth, he says, “sorry, I haven’t had coffee in a while.”  He takes another sip.  “Shit, this is good.”

“In my humble opinion, it really is the best coffee on campus,” the man grins and there it is again, the little tilt of his head.

Grantaire coughs, jerking his head away to force himself to stop staring.

The stranger leans forward a few inches, “so what program are you in?  I’m assuming you’re a student...”

Smirking at him, Grantaire prepares for the onslaught of ridicule that is surely headed his way.  “I’m doing a double major in music and visual arts.”

Ever defying his expectations already, the man’s mouth simply twitches upward again, “that’s really cool, I was a music student too when I went here, it’s a great program.  I wouldn’t know anything about art though, I can’t draw worth anything.  I guess my creativity is severely limited.”

Grantaire nods, digesting this information; Apollo isn’t as perfect as he seems after all.  The stranger’s words register and he finds his eyes narrowing; _when he was a student?  Wait..._

“How old are you, exactly.”

The man laughs again, “I’m turning 21 this year, don’t worry, I’m not some middle aged creepy who skulks around his old university.  I never really graduated so I can’t even call myself an alumni.”

“Why not?” Grantaire backpedals suddenly, realizing how personal the question is.  “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that, I was just, and you’re... I mean, it’s-”

“It’s okay, really.  I dropped out after I found a job making music with a few friends.  Continuing school wasn’t necessary and I had to take him to build my career.”

Something in that sentence sounds oddly familiar; something is trying to connect in Grantaire’s brain but the piece of the puzzle aren’t quite fitting together.

He shoves the thought aside, choosing to respond before the silence drags on, “that’s awesome.  Don’t get me wrong, I love school, but having a steady income would be nice, too.”

“Tell me about it,” the stranger takes another drink of his latte.  “It really is nice not having to worry about student loans anymore.”

That isn’t exactly what Grantaire was alluding to but he sees no reason to go into detail, his life is none of this guy’s business, let him assume what he wants.  “So what brings you back here?”

The man’s eyebrows slid upwards and he looks up from his beverage, “I wanted to go back to school.  I can afford it and I always loved learning.”

“Oh...”  Grantaire doesn’t know what to say to that, trying to imagine a life where he could just decide to go to school and take whatever he wants.  Tuition is insane, what is this guy’s job, anyway?

“Yeah, I’m planning on getting a degree in poly-sci.  It is my passion and I was trying to complete a minor before I left; I have the opportunity, so why not continue?”

“That makes sense,” Grantaire fidgets in his chair, feeling decidedly uncomfortable.  He’s suddenly very aware of where he is, sitting in a café across from a beautiful, wealthy- no doubt talented as well- stranger.  He is suddenly struck by how out of place he is, Grantaire does not belong here with a man that is so out of his league, it isn’t funny. 

“Are you alright?” the man looks concerned, obviously noticing the way Grantaire shifted away from him.

“Yeah,” Grantaire lies, “you just struck a nerve I guess, I’m forever worrying about student loans.”  _And finding a place to sleep, and eating at least one meal a day, and having to save up to buy stupid shit he should easily be able to afford, like winter jackets._ The list goes on.

“I’m sorry, that was an insensitive matter for me to joke about, I forgot what being a starving artist was like,” the man looks sincere, trying to make eye contact with Grantaire.

“Starving artist, right,” Grantaire laughs bitterly, the man had no idea how accurate that statement is for the student sitting in front of him.

The stranger sits back, brow furrowed.  He seems frustrated.  Possibly because everything he said during the past few minutes managed to offend Grantaire.

A gaggle of students enter the café, buzzing excitedly about something and the stranger’s mouth twitches.  He seems desperate to change the conversation because he blurts out, “I never caught your name.”

“I never gave it,” the student’s smirk returns, “but I’m Grantaire.”

The man nods, a ghost of a smile returning to his lips as he considers the information. 

Grantaire clears his throat, “and yours is...?”

The man opens his mouth to respond as the group of new customers reaches their table at the back of the shop.

“Enjolras?” a hopeful-looking girl asks.

The stranger, Enjolras apparently, pales before turning around and flashing a smile at his fans.  _Enjolras, lead singer and guitarist of the Barricade Boys, signed on by Valjean records in second year.  Famous beyond measure, he is the student who dropped out of school with his friends to take the band a step further.  Well, fuck._

Grantaire shakes his head, curls bouncing over his ears, what is he doing here?  He has a shift at one of his jobs in less than half an hour and he needs to get across campus.  Standing abruptly, Grantaire steadies his coffee as he nudges the table.  He doesn’t belong here.

Enjolras turns away from his doting audience after signing a few napkins, concern colouring his face.  “Grantaire-”

“I need to leave,” Grantaire shoulders past a girl who is fixing him with a particularly vicious glare.  He sighs before turning around, carefully arranging his features in a smile that never reaches his eyes.  This is no place for him, playing pretend that he is anywhere near being on equal level with this god of music.  He suddenly feels exhausted as he glances at the wall above Enjolras’ head.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

He hears Enjolras protest, try to follow him, but the door closes with a chime and the sounds from inside the coffee shop are cut off.  Grantaire leaves the café behind him as he ventures into the crisp January air, steeling himself for the unpleasant walk across campus. 

As he hurries across the square, he tells himself that his chin is trembling because of the cold, that his eyes are wet from the sting of the wind.  Self-deception is really the only thing that stops moisture from running down his cheeks and freezing on the chilled skin.  Grantaire does what he does best: he bites his tongue and tries to forget whatever pathetic fantasy he thought was going to come of the past half hour.  Nothing good ever happens to him, nothing ever will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the first chapter of my bassist!R fic. A giant thank you to my best friend enjolgay for humouring the headcanon that spurred this fic, editing this at the last minute, and providing information for the Green Day related sections. <3
> 
> If you are interested, Grantaire's old bass looks like this:
> 
> http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mc5qvs2xXu1r86xc3o1_1280.jpg
> 
> And the patches on his case look like these, respectively:
> 
> http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lfx1xeYM251qbhmdv.jpg
> 
> http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/31F-j3OwtIL.jpg
> 
> http://tinypic.com/view.php?pic=10gzfdi&s=6#.UuxwgT1dVUQ
> 
> Please leave any comments and criticisms you may have, they are always appreciated. If you thought of any little headcanons while reading this, feel free to write them in the comments section. I may use them at a later time and will ALWAYS give credit if you leave a name/username behind. :)


	2. Chapter 2

            Enjolras slams the door to the flat that the Barricade Boys are renting in town during their stay.  He doesn’t even make it a few steps before he sinks to the ground, leaning back and burying his face in his hands.  As another member of the band, the other lead guitarist, walks into the room, he groans softly and makes groping motions toward the kitchen.

            “Long day?”  Courfeyrac wanders into the kitchen, footsteps muffled against the tile, he’s wearing the socks that Jehan knit him for Christmas last year.  Enjolras’ lovingly folded his own pair and promptly shoved them in the back of his sock drawer.  They haven’t seen the light of day since.

            Enjolras makes a sound of assent, looking up to see the other man emerge from the kitchen with half a bagel in his mouth and a mug of coffee.  The fact that Courfeyrac is able to understand his vague pseudo-sign language and grunting more than half the time continues to pleasantly surprise him.  Courfeyrac hands Enjolras the cup and smiles when he inhales deeply.

            “Just how you like it, black,” a pause, “like your soul.”

            “Fuck off, drama queen,” Enjolras takes a sip and leans his head back, savouring the taste.  Something in the back of his mind tries to remind him how sexy that gesture looked when Grantaire did it, but he pushes the thought away.  “But seriously, thanks, you make the best coffee.”

            “I know, I’m so great at pushing the ‘on’ button,” Courfeyrac laughs before he flops down next to Enjolras.  He tilts in head to rest on his friend’s shoulder and looks up at him before saying, “wanna talk about it?”

            “Kind of?”

            “Is that an answer or a question?” Courf put on his best Combeferre voice; there is a reason the members of the Barricade Boys nicknamed the pianist ‘mom’.

            “You just answered a question that answered a question with another question, don’t talk to me about proper sentence structure,” Enjolras teases, nudging Courf’s shoulder.

            “I lost you after the first question,” the man smirks, “mostly because I tune you out whenever you speak but you can still rant to me about your bad day.”

            Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

            “No, really, I’ll even nod and agree at all the right places; I have good timing like that.”

            “You’re such an ass,” Enjolras rolls his eyes, but decides that his need to vent outweighs his annoyance, and proceeds to tell his friend the events of his day.  “So I heard someone playing guitar in the main square on campus, and this guy was good.  I mean, he could _play_ , you should have heard how he controlled the pick, it was incredible.”

            “Oh my god, don’t tell me you have a boner for guitar guy,” Courf waggled his eyebrows as Enjolras, causing the man to smack his shoulder.

            “Don’t interrupt, it’s rude,” Enjolras flicks his friend’s ear and shifts himself into a more comfortable position on the floor.  He continues, “anyway, this guy is already an amazing musician, and then he starts singing.  His vibrato is so pleasant and don’t even get me started on his falsetto, it’s absolutely ridiculous.  After he finished playing, I went over to talk to him, and ended up buying him coffee.”

            “You _are_ in love with guitar guy,” this is accompanied by a thoughtful smile, “also, no more coffee for you, I’m trying to wean you off; two cups in a few hours is not a good idea.”  He plucks the mug out of Enjolras’ hands despite his protests and deposits it on the floor next to his knee. 

“I am not addicted to coffee,  Courf.”

“Ferre claims that you are and he knows all.  I’m not going to be the one to face his wrath when he finds out I gave you caffeine.”

“He’s not that scary, now give it back.”

“No,” Courfeyrac slides the coffee farther away, out of Enjolras’ reach, “if you really want some, bitch to him about it when he gets home.”

Enjolras blanches and withdraws his hand.

The action is met with a smirk, “that’s what I thought; so you got guitar guy’s number, right?”

            “Well, no.  We were interrupted by a bunch of fans who recognized me, that kind of freaked him out and he left.”

            “Wait, he didn’t know who you are?  Does he live under a rock?”

            “I don’t know, maybe he doesn’t listen to our kind of music?” Enjolras’ mouth twitches to the side and he shrugs.  “Regardless, you should have seen his face when he found out; he just bolted out of the shop, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.”

            “Wow, you sure have it bad, for a guy whose sex drive is non-existent.”

            “That’s not-”

            “Shhhhh,” Courfeyrac presses a finger to Enjolras’ mouth.  “I’m getting Ferre in on this, he’ll know how to find guitar guy.”

            There’s a knock at the door, Courfeyrac pushes his friend so he slides across the hardwood flooring.  As it swings open, Enjolras replies, “his name is Grantaire.”

            “What about Grantaire?” Éponine enters the room, reaching down to ruffle Enjolras’ hair. 

“You know him?” Enjolras gets up and snatches his coffee from beside Courf, handing it to Éponine. 

“Is this a bribe?”

“You never answered my question, tell me about him.”

  “Sure,” Éponine takes a sip and sits down across from Enjolras, pointedly ignoring Courf’s excited squeal.  “He’s the resident drunk, everyone at the bar knows him.  R usually comes in before he goes to his classes and returns at around six for a round of shots with the staff.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widen comically, “wow, that guy’s hardcore; sounds like a great drinking buddy though.”

Enjolras takes to the trend of ignoring Courf and tilts his head, “R?”

The woman looks up from her coffee mug and shrugs, “it’s a nickname: Grantaire, Grand R, Big R, R.”  She raises an eyebrow as Enjolras honest-to-god starts giggling at her explanation.

“That’s brilliant,” he shakes his head, still smiling.

“Of course you of all people love French puns, freak,” Éponine picks herself up from the floor and crosses the room, flopping down on the couch.  “So how do you know dear old Grantaire?”

“Because he got a massive hard-on when he saw the dude play guitar and wants to see what else he can do with those fing- mgmgmfmfff.”

Enjolras launched himself across the room as soon as Courfeyrac started speaking, wrestling with his friend before he finally succeeded at getting a hand firmly clamped over the other man’s mouth.   

“You _what_?” Éponine sits up, a furrow developing between her eyebrows. 

Enjolras yelps as Courf licks wetly across his palm, relinquishing the other man from his grasp. 

Courfeyrac laughs, “oh come on, it’s not that bad, you’ve had my saliva in your _mouth_ before.”

“That was one time,” the dark flush creeping up Enjolras’ neck and spilling onto his cheeks does nothing to help his situation.  “I was very drunk and in my defense, I regret everything about that night.”

“Boys!”  they jump as Éponine raises her voice, standing up from the couch and fixing Enjolras with a steely glare.  “Do you like Grantaire?”

“Well, I mean, we just met- I can’t possibly-”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, “Enjolras, so help me...”

“Yes, I guess I do.”

“Okay then, there are a few things you need to know then.”  She sits back down and pats the seat on the couch next to her.  Enjolras scrambles off the floor to join her; Courfeyrac goes to follow him but Éponine give him a look that sends him off toward his room instead.

As soon as the two friends are alone, Éponine sighs and faces the blonde, “okay, so first of all, I’ve been friends with him for years, since we were really young.  You know the person that I was writing letters to during our first tour?”

Enjolras nods.

“That was Grantaire, we’ve kept in touch because this friendship is important to the both of us.  Now, all I ask of you is that you need to be completely serious about pursuing him if you decide to.”

“Of course, that makes sense.”

“Good, he’s been hurt far too many times and I don’t want to see him like that again.  I’ve been there to pick up the pieces whenever it happens and I want to be clear when I say that if you hurt him, even think about breaking his heart, I’m leaving.  Grantaire comes first; he’s the closest thing to family I have left.”

“Éponine, I don’t even know if this will even happen, I don’t know if he likes-”

“Trust me, you have nothing to worry about, you’re his type to a T.”

“Okay,” Enjolras bites the inside of his cheek.  “’Ponine, you know that this never happens to me, I never get... feelings like this so quickly.  Even if I can be friends with him, that’s enough, I would never do anything without his consent.”

To his surprise, Éponine actually starts laughing.  It takes her a few minutes to collect herself and when she does, she gasps, “okay then, Mr. Social Justice, you get ridiculously turned on whenever you hear about healthy communication in relationships.  I’m not worried about that from the man who gives a whole new meaning to ‘consent is sexy.’”

Enjolras looks confused, “What do you want me to be careful about then?”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Éponine snickers again, “but you’re kind of an accidental asshole.”

“What, I don’t think-”

“That guy that you made cry in Milan?”

“That’s hardly fa-”

“The reporter that we actually had to restrain so that he didn’t punch you?”

“He was being-”

The front door swings open again, “what about that time you took a female fan out to dinner because you thought it was a ‘friend thing’,” Enjolras’ protests die in his throat as Combeferre crosses the room as places a peck on Éponine’s cheek.  “Only for her to be crushed when she found out that you’re gay?”

“That wasn’t my fault though.”

“Oh sure, because you had to reject her loudly in front of the entire restaurant and five reporters?”

“I didn’t mean to.” Enjolras says quietly, “it just sort of happened, and-”

Combeferre sits down beside Enjolras and regards him over his glasses, “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty again, but I think this is what Éponine was trying to get at.”

“Exactly,” the woman in question smiles across Enjolras before turning to him.  “You don’t think before you act, or speak for that matter, and people usually get hurt.”

“Capable of being terrible is a good description I think,” Combeferre muses, patting Enjolras’ knee and standing up.  “If either of you need me, I’ll be in my room, working out chords for that new song.”

Éponine waves a hand in his general direction as he strides down the hallway, “Just... If anything comes of this, please don’t do that to Grantaire.”

“I promise that I’ll make an effort not to be a dick to him.”

“Great, because if you don’t, you won’t have one anymore.”  Éponine winks suggestively and turns to follow Combeferre into his bedroom.  “I’m going to order Chinese, do you want anything?”

“Chicken fried rice is fine, thanks.”

She hums as an answer and continues away from the couch.  Enjolras waits until he hears a door click shut before he turns his face into the nearest pillow and groans loudly.  A hand strokes through his hair and he looks up to find Courfeyrac standing over him. 

 _How is he so damn quiet?_ Enjolras groans again and nuzzles into his friend’s hand.

“Don’t worry, you just need to get laid,” Couferyac steps away as Enjolras sends a death glare his way.  “That’s no way to get the ‘d’, don’t want to scare sexy guitar guy off, now do we?”

The blonde growls and Courf skitters back to his bedroom, laughing, “Jehan sends his regards by the way, prepare yourself for sappy love poems when he gets home.”

Enjolras makes another weak sound into the furniture, of course all of his friends know; this is going to be a nightmare.  He decides that he needs a nap before his afternoon lecture and tries to shift into a more comfortable position.  When Enjolras ends up with a loud thump on the floor a few seconds later, he thinks, _fuck it_ , and peels himself off the ground.  He snatches his set of house keys off the table and grabs his coat.  If he hurries, Enjolras will be able to catch the train to head downtown. 

Last week, a local fan tweeted him, asking for help at a homeless shelter not far from the university that is always looking for extra hands.  Of course, Enjolras agreed; this didn’t surprise anyone, all of his followers knew about his penchant for social activism.  He quickly pulls up the tweet to find the address before he stuffs his hands in his pockets and begins walking toward the subway station. 

A smile makes its way onto Enjolras’ face as he bows his head down against the biting wind.  At this rate he’ll have a few hours to volunteer his time before he needs to make his way back to campus.  Who knows?  Maybe he’ll meet some interesting people, god knows he needs inspiration.  Enjolras hasn’t written anything substantial in a few weeks and the deadline for the release of a new single is creeping up fast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed meeting almost everyone else in the band; there's one person that didn't appear but Enjolras doesn't really count them as a part of the band/family so it was of little consequence to him. As always, comments and criticism are appreciated, feel free to leave them down below.  
> The next chapter should be up within a few weeks, I don't really have a lot of plot solidified for this fic yet so I need to start working on that. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Grantaire flops down face-first onto a mattress near the back wall of the shelter and immediately regrets the decision.  A cloud of dust explodes from the material, making him cough violently.

“Disgusting,” he mutters and pushes himself up from the makeshift bed.  He reaches over to a bin next to him to pull out a blanket.  He sifts through the choices and wrinkles his nose, the least the shelter could do is wash their bedding every once in a while.  Not that Grantaire should be one to complain; at least he gets a warm place to sleep for the night.  Well, kind of.  The drafts that seep through the cracks in the walls and the crappy insulation tend to cause the temperature to drop a few degrees.  Grantaire supposes that the place can’t exactly afford to crank the heating up either.

He carefully tucks the ugly quilt that he finds into the mattress, it’s one of the only blankets without holes and smells like it’s been washed recently.  The thin layer isn’t much, but the detergent scent that clings to it stifles the stench of the pad underneath.  Grantaire is also rather grateful that the suspicious stains that had dried onto the material at some point are now covered.  He’ll take gaudy orange and purple hearts over trying not to imagine what the brown smudges on the mattress are the result of.

“Hey, R,” Fantine, the owner of this shelter, says loudly and waves to him from across the room.  She picks her way through the crowd of people gathered on the floor in small packs.  Within a few seconds, she’s standing next to Grantaire, bright smile making the sides of his lips twitch upwards.

“What’s up, Fantine?” he greets, nodding up at her.

“The usual, nasty cold going around and we don’t have enough medication.  There are rumours that it’s developing into the flu in some people and it doesn’t sound pretty,” the woman shakes her head.

The appalling lack of supplies is always an issue and the city never does enough to provide the local shelters with the funding they need.

“When do you ever have enough of anything?”

“Tell me about it,” Fantine sits down on the bed and the musician follows shortly behind, perching on the quilt near the edge.

“Fucking conservative agendas,” comes the mumbled response. 

Fantine can almost hear the wry smile that accompanies the statement and she laughs loudly.  “You’re really the only one here who actually calls them out.  Most of the other shelter-hoppers are content to blame us, like we can do anything about not having the money we need.  And I swear to god, if I hear another suit say that the government is ‘doing the best that they can with the resources they have’,” her mouth twists and her voice is mocking as she says the words, “I am going to lose it.”

Grantaire holds out his hands, palms facing forward in front of his chest, “woah, there, I don’t absorb pent up rage, I just amplify it.”

“Yeah, let’s not go down that path again, we need all the positivity we can get at this point,” she smiles faintly again and sighs. 

The last time she and Grantaire had a discussion like this, they had ended up smoking and quietly lamenting about the “the state of humanity” as the man had so dramatically put it.  Although the conversation had been interesting, it had quickly dampened any jovial mood that had existed.  It also caused quite a few of the other residents to begin debating the issue amongst themselves, negative energy quickly flooding the small space.

Fantine sighed and leaned back on her hands, “you want a cigarette?”

“Yeah, why not?”

The friends spent the next hour or so sitting on Grantaire’s claimed mattress, chatting with each other.  Small talk is easy for them and the atmosphere quickly becomes lazy and comfortable.  When Grantaire fumbles with his lights, done with his first smoke, Fantine takes it from his hands and deftly flips the switch.

“So,” she begins, “I have a favour to ask you.”

“Mmm?” he made a questioning sound as he inhaled deeply, relishing the sharp, bitter taste before opening his mouth.  Watching the smoke curl gracefully toward the ceiling, he closes his eyes.  Cigarettes are too expensive for him to afford with other necessities to worry about, so when Fantine offers, he takes them with nothing but appreciation on his tongue.

The woman’s eyes follow the wispy cloud as well, “could you play here sometimes?  For the residents?”  She nudges Grantaire’s guitar case with her foot, “you know, to lighten the mood...”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Of course, I would pay you,” Fantine adds quickly.

“No, you won’t,” he scrubs a hand over his face and peers at her between his fingers, “I need the extra practice and you can’t afford to pay another salary.”

“It’s fine, really.” 

Grantaire’s curls whip around his face as he shakes his head at her continued protests, “don’t lie to me, there a reason you need volunteers so badly.”

He taps the cigarette against his forearm and avoids eye contact as he waits for the woman’s answer.  Ash falls to the dirty floor, mingling with god-knows-what.  Grantaire expects Fantine to reprimand him, insist payment, something.  She just shrugs an stands up after a few moments of silence pass between them.

“Have it your way, then,” she gestures to a small stage that is shoved in a corner next to the kitchen doors.  It’s a sad thing, hastily put together out of particle board and two-by-fours.  “Start any time you’d like.”

Fantine begins to walk away before she turns with a gentle curve to her lips, “And R?”

“Yeah?” he says as he gently removes his guitar from its case, softly running his hands over the shiny wood.

“Thanks.”

The single word is filled to the brim with gratitude, and Grantaire can feel his chest swell. 

“Anything for you, Fantine,” the words are soft and, as she walks away, he can feel understanding hang heavy in the air.

He waits until she disappears into the kitchen before he picks up his instrument and walks over to the stage.  An ear piercing screech echoes throughout the room when he slides a chair over.  Grantaire winces and apologizes at the sea of glares he receives from the small group of old men playing a quiet game of chess. 

He remembers painting the board of alternating squares onto the tabletop a few years ago.  It was his first favour for Fantine when she found out that he was completing a minor in visual arts.  The pieces were not made by him, however; they are an motley collection of mismatched parts to other sets that have been donated.  Plastic, wood, and metal all decorate the board, an array of different colours form a veritable rainbow. 

If Grantaire were a different person, he might consider the game pieces to be a suitable metaphor for the infinite variety of people that pass through the shelter every day.

But he isn’t, so he doesn’t.  Instead, he tunes his guitar and absentmindedly runs through the songs that he knows, picking a few to play.  Grantaire’s audience seems to be mostly geriatric so he decides on a few softer pieces that wouldn’t upset them too much.

Half an hour passes and he has a small group of people clustered in a semi-circle just in front of the stage.  Most of them are clapping along to his music, but a few of the younger residents sing the lyrics they recognize. Much to his surprise, Grantaire is enjoying himself.  He doesn’t need to face the bitter cold or demanding crowds that busking at the university brings.  These people are familiar and friendly; they just appreciate the music for what it is, capable of finding happiness through the simple pleasures of life.

Grantaire changes key and seamlessly slides into the next song when the door to the shelter swings open, bringing a rush of cold air along with it.  Scowling, he fumbles a chord and glances up at the door, ready to tell the person to be quick about closing it.

_Motherfucking shit good god shit._

Grantaire’s hands start shaking and he finds that he can no longer strum.  His heart is racing, painfully pounding against his ribcage and he can’t seem to fill his lungs with air properly.  Gasping, he all but falls off of the stage and heads to the back door of the room, trying to avoid eye contact with the beautiful man who just strolled in.

Why did Enjolras have to come here?  There are at least five other shelters in the city, maybe more that Grantaire doesn’t know about, and the man picked this one. 

“Oh for the love of-” his mumbled curse it cut off when he runs into Fantine again.

The woman is walking backward out of the kitchen, carrying a giant serving tray piled high with glasses of water and juice boxes.

“Woah, there,” she laughs and effortlessly skirts around him, avoiding disaster, “where are you going so quickly?”

“I-I just... I need to leave, I’m sorry,” Grantaire replies in a rush, hastily waving the hand that isn’t clutching his guitar and pushing open the back door.

When he gets outside, he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with crisp January air and trying to calm himself down.  After his heart rate returns to a relatively normal rhythm, he sighs and slouches back against the brick wall behind him.

Well that was the last thing that Grantaire wanted to happen to him.  Wonderful.  Now Enjolras knows that he’s homeless, he’s probably disgusted.  Any sliver of chance he might have had with the lead singer is gone; unless Enjolras didn’t see him.

He quickly pushes that thought aside, it’s always better not to hope.  Thinking that something will come out of this will only lead to disappointment in his experience.  Grantaire runs his right hand through his hair, pulling at strands around his ears.  The tug and prickle of his scalp always makes him feel better, it grounds him in a way.

 _Alright,_ he thinks, _time to go._

And with that, Grantaire pushes himself off of the wall and starts walking down the street.  It is only after he reaches the train station, and goes to reach into his backpack for the meager collection of change he collected, that he realizes he left it at the shelter.  His brain then registers that he’s still holding the neck of his naked guitar.  His case.  Oh god, he left his case behind as well, what is he going to do?

He shuts his eyes momentarily, biting hard on his lower lip, and turning away from the ticket kiosk.  Spying an empty bench, Grantaire shuffles over to it to wait.  When it gets dark, and the station is deserted, nobody will bother him.  It has been a few months since the man had to resort to sleeping on benches like the one he is sitting on now.  But there is no way that he can go back to any shelter now.  Grantaire is not willing to risk running into Enjolras again, he’s had enough humiliation for one day, thank you very much.

He pulls the frayed ends of his jacket sleeves down over shaking fingers, and tries to ignore the numbness and pain already beginning to affect his extremities. 

 _This is going to be a long night,_ he thinks, and with that, he hunkers down, hugging his guitar close to his chest, ready to brave the difficult hours ahead of him.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

“Excuse me?” Enjolras approaches the woman who is handing out beverages to the people sitting inside the shelter he just entered. 

She looks up and it only takes a few seconds for her face to break out into a blindingly genuine smile, “hello there, young man.  What can I do for you today?”

He returns the grin almost shyly and quickly explains that he is looking for volunteer work.  As soon as the words leave his mouth, he finds himself in possession of an enormous tray of drinks and instructions to offer them to the little groups clustered around the room. 

Enjolras feels himself relax slightly, relieved to have work to do and thanks the woman for allowing him to help.

“Oh, it’s no problem at all, I’m just so happy you came,” the woman, who introduced herself as Fantine, wipes her hand along her forehead, “we’re so short of volunteers this time of year.  No one wants to leave the warmth of their homes to help, and we aren’t exactly known for our premium heating system either.”

Enjolras laughs at this and begins to turn away before he bites his lip.  Balancing the weight of the tray on one hand, he reaches out to Fantine, who is speaking to an old man, and taps her shoulder.

“Back so soon?” she jokes, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes more prominent.

“Yes, well... umm...” Enjolras doesn’t know quite how to phrase his question, so, following Combeferre’s approach to, well, almost everything, he decides to be direct.  “The young man that you were talking to, is his name perhaps Grantaire?”

Fantine looks startled but composes her face in mere seconds, “Why yes, it is.  Do you know him?”

She narrows her eyes as she questions him, in a way that makes Enjolras feel distinctly uncomfortable, like he’s crossing a line of sorts.

“Well, no, not really,” he quickly continues as Fantine’s mouth hardens into a narrow line, “I mean, I met him while he was busking at the university earlier today and we had coffee and I was wondering what he was doing here because I needed, no, I’m sorry, I wanted to talk to him.  He just sort of left and-”

The woman holds out a hand, “Son, has anyone ever told you that you babble?”

“More often than not actually,” he feels his face heating up.

Thankfully, Fantine laughs quietly, “Well I’m not sure why he’d walk away from a gorgeous thing like you,” Enjolras feels himself turn crimson, “but his whereabouts and business here is his own information, not mine.  I don’t know where he’s gone off to, but if he wants you to find him, you will.  Now, you didn’t come here to chat, said you weren’t afraid of some hard work.”

He is left gaping like an idiot while she snaps her fingers and points to the other side of the room, “Come on, move those feet, boy.  The water isn’t going to serve itself.”

Nodding quickly, Enjolras scurries off to do as Fantine instructed him.  While he is making rounds of the room, he notices Grantaire’s guitar case lying on a mattress.  The hideous quilt it is sitting on top of drew his eye initially, but the sticker clad object is unmistakeable.  The man obviously takes good care of it, why would he leave it behind?  The backpack sitting on the ground near it also looks like the one Grantaire had been carrying earlier in the day.  Strange.

Enjolras makes a quick mental note to take the objects with him when he leaves.  He doesn’t want someone to walk off with them, a room full of people with very little unfortunately leads to scavenging of the seemingly abandoned.  Tomorrow he’ll wait for Grantaire in the university square and return them to him.   And while he is at it, Enjolras is going to clear up the reason behind the man’s sudden reaction to hearing his name.

With a resolute nod, he tucks the case and backpack away underneath the mattress and continues his path, still laden with the drink-heavy tray.  Enjolras will figure everything out tomorrow and then perhaps he and Grantaire can try coffee again.  Or maybe dinner if things go very well. 

He shakes his head as he practically hears Courfeyrac teasing him about his little crush, Enjolras will definitely need to keep this away from his friend for as long as possible if he is to retain any shred of sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A giant thank you to my best friend enjolgay for editing this at a ridiculous hour, again. I don't know what I would do without her. I hope you liked the latest chapter, I should be updating it again in a few weeks time, although I can't be sure because I may be really busy.  
> I feel like I should add that while I was writing this, I was imagining Fantine as a slightly older version of Joanne from RENT. I'm very proud of my brain for connecting the character to a concrete faceclaim because I usually only have fuzzy ideas of what the person I'm writing about looks like.  
> Anyway, I look forward to hearing about your thoughts in the comments, criticism and suggestions are always appreciated. :)


End file.
